Author's Note:

Please pardon the lateness of the update! Getting close to the end—not of the novel itself, but of how much of it I'm posting online. I'm afraid I shan't be giving away the entire thing for free~! ;D

This is one of my favorite chapters. And, yeah, Holmes kind of gets tortured a lot in this first book, I'm afraid. However, if you know my writings, you know the type of ending I prefer no matter what. =)

Btw, thanks to feedback from a couple of reviewers (they know who they are!) and my beta, I've rewritten and re-uploaded the prologue. Please check it out—it's longer and much more detailed this time!

To my reviewers:

MadameGiry25: Yeees, Mrs. Hudson… I'll see what I can do about that. *sighs* My problem with her is that I need to flesh her out more fully in my head and try to detach my version of her from the Granada version… Eh, the more trouble Holmes is in, the easier it is for me to write Watson. =) Thank you very much! (Oh, and please check out the prologue rewrite, do! My beta said it was much, much better—I really want to know if you agree!)

James Birdsong: Thank you!


© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.

All rights reserved.


==Chapter VI==

The Snare

"Do you know what is the matter with you?"

"The same."

"Ah! You recognise the symptoms?"

"Only too well."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes," Culverton Smith said affably. "I shouldn't be surprised if it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day—a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London—a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very clever of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect."

Sherlock Holmes had wished only recently for the chance to shake Smith by the hand for his genius. Now he was forced to listen to Smith's playful gloating over a supposed dying man. "I knew that you did it," he said quietly.

"Indeed?" Smith gave a rich chuckle. "And what proof have you of this, hmm?" He patted Holmes's shoulder genially—the circumstances were so very far removed from their encounter in a Rotherhithe opium den. "But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of game is that—"

"Water," Holmes rasped. Half of the antidote, he had taken while Watson left to fetch Smith; the other half resided, colourlessly, in the glass of water on the nightstand. His parched throat yearned for relief, and his mind knew that he must take the other half soon.

"What?"

Holmes managed to raise his voice. "Give me the water!"

Smith picked up the glass, extended it towards Holmes, then drew it back sharply. Holmes did not have to pretend his desperation as he weakly lifted up a hand for the glass, murmuring, "Please." Smith's black eyes lit with vicious satisfaction, and he leaned in close, the water still just out of Holmes's reach.

"I want you to know, Holmes," he whispered maliciously. "It would never do to have the Great Detective die in ignorance of the cause of his own death." He smiled, a sick smile, and brushed the hair back from Holmes's sweaty forehead in a facsimile of tenderness. Holmes shuddered beneath the touch, not yet in full control of his body once again. The sick smile widened. "Here." He held out the glass for Holmes, who latched onto it and drank greedily. Swallowing was agony, but the coolness was a blessing—and the medicine it contained, crucial.

"There you are." Smith took the empty glass back and returned it to the nightstand. "Now, listen carefully, Holmes—you're good at doing that, aren't you?"

Holmes groaned—again, not an act. The antidote needed some little time to work its healing upon his ravaged body. "Do what you can for me," he whispered. "Let bygones be bygones. I'll put the words out of my head—I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll forget it." Then he wondered if he'd made a misstep, for anyone who truly knew him knew that Sherlock Holmes would indeed die before making such a bargain.

Fortunately, Culverton Smith knew him by reputation only. "Forget what?"

"Well, about Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I'll forget it."

"You can forget it or remember it, just as you like," Smith said obligingly. "Somehow, I… don't quite see you in the witness-box." That sick smile again. "Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It's not him we are talking about—it's you."

"Yes, yes," Holmes said wearily.

"The fellow who came for me—I've forgotten his name—said that you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors." Good old Watson—he'd obeyed Holmes's order to set Smith's box down, and had waited the full two hours until it was time to seek out Culverton Smith and induce him to come to Baker Street.

"I could only account for it so."

"Hum, I… think not," Smith said easily. "Cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have gotten this thing?"

"I can't think," Holmes moaned. "My mind is gone." It was very nearly true—his normal precision and clarity of thought were beyond his reach at present. "For heaven's sake, help me!"

"Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. As I said, it would be a shame for you to die, not knowing the cause of your own death."

A sharp pang shot through his stomach—the parting pains of the disease, he hoped—and he curled in on himself, clutching at his abdomen and choking down a cry of agony. "Give me… something… to ease my pain," he gritted out raggedly between spasms.

"Painful, is it?" Smith mused, smiling almost benignly. Holmes nearly turned away in disgust. "Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy."

"Yes, yes," Holmes gasped, "it is cramp. Oh, God!" Let the antidote finish its work quickly, he prayed.

"Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow," Smith said in a satisfied tone. "Listen now! Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?"

How unnecessary this cross-examination was—if Holmes managed to live to a hundred, he was certain he could not forget his poisoning. "No, no, nothing." His fingertips dug into his side, seeking to massage the cramps away.

"Think again," Smith ordered sternly.

"I'm too ill to think," Holmes whispered, hissing in pain.

"Well, then, I'll help you. Did anything come by post?"

"By post?"

"A box by chance?"

Holmes's only reply was a long, choking groan that was only half put-on.

"Listen, Holmes!" Smith seized the detective by the shoulders and shook him, sending further spasms of fire through his body. Holmes gave a barely audible whimper. "You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box—an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it—do you remember?"

"Yes, yes, I opened it," Holmes blurted out. "There was a sharp spring inside. Some joke—"

"It was no joke," Smith said in that stern tone, "as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone, I would not have hurt you. Remember, remember, the Fifth of November. Well, you shan't remember it, but I shall."

The boy you murdered asked me to cross your path, Holmes wanted to retort. "I remember," he gasped instead. "The spring! It drew blood. This box—this on the table."

"The very one, by George!" Smith smiled grimly. "It may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, my dear Holmes." No man had the right to call him that but John Watson—it sounded profane coming from this monster's lips. Smith drew up the room's one chair and settled into it. "And I shall watch you die."

"The gas," Holmes whispered. The near-inaudibility of his voice belied the abrupt surge of strength through his body, the cramps dispelling slowly but surely.

"What is that?"

"Turn up the gas." He felt as if a river coursed through him, washing away all impurities.

"Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better." Smith crossed the room and adjusted the light. "Is there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?"

Holmes pushed himself up in bed as the other man's back was yet turned. "A match and a cigarette?" was the cavalier request, in his own true voice. Weakened, but no longer gasping and ragged.

Smith whirled around, staring incredulously at the detective. Nodding once, Holmes smiled mirthlessly and reached for his cigarette case and matches. "The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," he continued. Let Smith think that it had all indeed been an act—so much the better for Holmes's reputation. "For three days, I have managed neither food nor drink until you were good enough to give me that glass of water. But it is the lack of tobacco which I find most irksome." He lit a cigarette and placed it between his lips with a sigh of pleasure—and relief. "That is very much better."

Smith found his voice at last. "And what, pray, is the meaning of this?"

Holmes gave him a hard look. "I am certain you can deduce that for yourself."

Footsteps sounded on the landing beyond, and the door opened, revealing Inspector Harold Morton. Smith paled, and Holmes waved the newcomer in. "Ah, Inspector! All is in order, and this is your man."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Three constables came up to flank the official detective. "I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage," Morton announced.

He got no further than that, however, for Smith drew himself up with wounded dignity and thundered, "Preposterous! I—"

"It's no good, Smith," Holmes said quietly. "They can still arrest you for the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes. Thank you, by the way, for turning up the gas and signalling the Inspector. Morton, the prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which must be removed, and I would handle it gingerly if I were you."

Smith backed away from the advancing police, his hand straying to the noted pocket. A decisive click kept it from entering. "I wouldn't do that, Smith," Holmes said in a low tone, his revolver drawn from its place beneath his pillow and cocked.

Morton took the opportunity to rush at the murderer and attempt to handcuff him. The struggle was brief; the scholarly Smith was no match for the powerfully-built Morton. "You'll only get yourself hurt," the inspector grunted. "Stand still, will you?" The cuffs clicked into place.

"A nice trap!" Smith snarled. "It will bring you to the dock, Holmes, not me. His friend asked me to come here to cure him," he continued, to the police. "I was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said anything which Holmes may invent to corroborate his insane suspicions. You can like lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours."

"Good heavens!" Holmes could have kicked himself to Charing Cross Station as he watched Watson emerge from his hiding place in the shadows between the drapes and the bureau. "I had totally forgotten him! My dear Watson—"

"No, don't speak just yet, Holmes," Watson warned, a thundercloud settling over his countenance. The sinking feeling in the pit of Holmes's stomach had nothing to do with the illness—Watson was clearly reining in his temper. "Not just yet." He looked to the inspector and gave a sharp nod. "Morton."

A cruel fire kindled in Smith's black eyes. "Someday you'll go too far in using your friends, Holmes," he sneered, "and then who will be there to defend you?"

"Quiet, you," Morton growled. "Men, let's get this wretch to the Yard."

A pregnant silence settled in the bedroom in the wake of police and prisoner. Just when Holmes thought he could bear the tension no longer, Watson spoke again, quietly. "It was all a deception."

The detective remained silent.

"Holmes, I would rather have known."

Sherlock Holmes justified his next words with the logic that Watson did not strictly need to know, and that he didn't want Watson fussing over his health. "My dear fellow, I owe you a thousand apologies," he said as he entered the sitting room to provide himself with some sustenance before attending to his toilet. "But you do realise that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret, you would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look upon his handiwork."

"And your appearance, Holmes?" Not quite forgiving, but at least Watson was willing to listen. Always a good sign.

"Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson," Holmes said dryly as he poured himself a glass of claret. "For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure." Interesting, that lies grew easier to tell once they were begun. "With vaseline upon the forehead, belladonna in the eyes, rouge over the cheekbones, and crust of beeswax round the lips, a very satisfying effect can be produced." That much was true—he'd tested it himself, more than once. "Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subjects produces a pleasing effect of delirium." Half-crowns and oysters were all that he could recall; the rest of his ramblings were lost to the haze of fever.

"But why would you not let me near you, since there was, in truth, no infection?" The infinitesimally small trace of hurt in Watson's tone made Holmes realise just how much damage he had truly done. How could he have so swiftly forgotten his vigil over Watson in '88, the Jezail to the thigh and the high fever that followed? The past few hours must have been a true hell for his poor friend.

"Can you ask, my dear Watson?" Holmes murmured, looking down at the floor. "Do you imagine that I have no respect for your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or temperature?" And still he lied. God forgive him.


It was late when at last Mary heard the door open and shut in the hall beyond. "John!" She flew up from the rocking chair and threw her arms around him.

"Mary," he breathed, holding her close and burying his face in her shoulder. She noted the haggard lines of his face before he did so. "Oh, Mary."

"Mr. Holmes—is he still alive? Oh, John, what has happened?" John looked up then, and she shivered at the pain in the hazel eyes she loved so much.

"He is well," he whispered hoarsely.

"What happened?" she said softly, peeling his coat off of him.

"It was a trap," he said slowly, as if in shock. "A trap for his suspect. The man tried to poison him—Holmes made him believe he had."

"And made Mrs. Hudson believe he had," Mary continued as she hung up his hat and coat, casting her mind back to the landlady's afternoon appearance, "and made… oh, John."

He shut his eyes in confirmation of her unspoken conclusion.

"Let's get you upstairs," she murmured, taking his arm and pulling him gently to the staircase. Not a word was exchanged between them until Mary had him sitting on the bed sans his suit coat, his dressing gown draped over his broad shoulders. She rested her chin on his good shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. "Now, what happened?"

He told her. He told her the entire melodramatic affair, and his voice broke several times in describing the allegedly ill Sherlock Holmes. Her chest ached with each crack in his normally strong baritone, and she wondered how Sherlock could be so cruel, even unintentionally. She could not reconcile the idea with the man who loved her husband like a brother and loved even her like a sister.

Then an anomaly struck her. "He wouldn't let you near for fear that you'd uncover his deception," she said slowly.

"Yes…" He shifted in her embrace. "Mary, what is it?"

"John… he let Culverton Smith near." She frowned, not liking where her train of thought was taking her. "The man who is the specialist in these tropical diseases—he let him near."

He stiffened beneath her touch as he reached the conclusion she had. "Good heavens."

"John… are you absolutely sure it was an act?"


Sherlock Holmes struggled to cleanse himself of all emotion as he neared his destination. It was no easy thing, even for his carefully cultivated powers of detachment, to pay a visit to the man who had so nearly succeeded in murdering him and had gloried in it. And had indirectly caused a rift between two dear friends—Watson had not returned to Baker Street since that dreadful evening, and Holmes had not seen him the one time he'd visited Paddington Street. Mary had been home, however, and her care in choosing her words had told him that a definite schism existed between the two men closest to her.

The holding cell of Culverton Smith was typical of such rooms and utterly unremarkable. Culverton Smith himself was a study in emotions as the guard let Holmes into the room—incredulity, anger, and hatred passed swiftly over his tanned face before it settled into the cold hauteur Holmes had marked out for him at first sight. "My dear Holmes," he said coolly. "Come to gloat, have you?"

Had Smith been standing, Holmes would have had half a foot over him; since Smith was sitting on his cot, the detective towered over the pathologist. "I shall not debase myself by mimicking a multiple murderer," Holmes said icily.

"Multiple murder?" Smith snorted. "How on earth did you conceive that notion?"

"As you said before, cause and effect." The detective's grey eyes hardened to twin points of steel. "You asked me, two days ago, who asked me to cross your path. Your nephew did. He suspected you of infecting poor souls in the East End with your Asiatic diseases."

Smith's black eyes widened briefly before he schooled his face into impassivity. "That one had a wild imagination."

Holmes chuckled mirthlessly; the sound would have sent chills down Watson's spine had he been there to hear it. "My dear sir, seldom have I met a young man so possessed of good sense. I myself have seen you move amongst the opium dens, and I have beheld the fruits of your labour." He leant in. "Your victims number in the dozens, Smith, if not more. You were experimenting."

Smith smiled complacently—Holmes had to admire his audacity. "You can prove nothing. That much is obvious if you needed to feign illness in order to extract a confession from me."

"You were not working for your own benefit," Holmes continued, disregarding the other's smugness. "You had an employer. He is a wealthy man, a man who could arrange for samples of your precious diseases to be shipped in all the way from Southeast Asia. A man of influence and power. He hired you to create a swift, incurable disease."

As he spoke, he had watched Smith's tanned features pale by degrees. "You know nothing," he whispered harshly.

"On the contrary, Smith," Holmes said softly but dangerously, "I know nearly everything. Nearly everything there is to know about this affair." Between his own deductions and the telegrams of a certain informant, he could piece the puzzle together only too easily. "Your employer… was none other than Professor. James. Moriarty."

The flash of fear through the man's black eyes confirmed it. "You are mad," he bit out instead.

Holmes straightened to his full height. "Very well. You may deny all, if you wish, but know that I shall uncover the complete truth. This is the beginning of Moriarty's end, Smith, and it began with you." He spun on his heel and rapped on the door to alert the guard.

"I might not have succeeded in stopping your meddling, Holmes," Smith snarled abruptly, "but he won't fail to do so. Interfere, and he'll hunt you down to the ends of the earth to finish you."

The door swung open, and Holmes set one foot out into the hall beyond before glancing back over his shoulder. "My dear Smith, did it ever occur to you that, perhaps, he would do the same to you?" He left before Smith could reply.

He had already warned the Yarders against letting anything but food and drink be passed to Culverton Smith, and, even then, the sustenance must be checked for poison. Despite those precautions, he did not believe Smith would live even to see the day of his trial.

The very next day, his belief was vindicated. Culverton Smith had died during the night of aconite poisoning.


Author's Note:

I would like to note that writing out Holmes's condition—namely, the pain he was in—was drawn from real-life experience. If it seems very real to you, that's because it is. I loved writing that long first scene. Smith was so deliciously evil, and poor Sherlock was so, well, heartrending. Oh, and something that I do need to figure out is how to make it clearer that Holmes was infected on Guy Fawkes' Night (check the blog for a post explaining my deductions on that: "Remember, Remember the Fifth of November").

Plus, Granada fans will doubtless recognize Watson hiding somewhere else besides behind Holmes's bed. Behind the bed, Sir Arthur? Yeah, right. There wouldn't be any bloody room for Watson back there! *sighs* When Canon fails to be realistically accurate, I'm afraid the avid novelist must depart from Canon, if only for a moment.

Which brings me to the whole point of Holmes having actually been ill in DYIN. It was something that KCS and Protector of the Grey Fortress pointed out in their epic collab Vows Made in Storms (which also makes Holmes out to have been ill in DYIN). In this story, Mary is the one to notice it: "The man who is the specialist in these tropical diseases—he let him near." Ostensibly, Holmes won't allow Watson near for fear of the good doctor uncovering his deception, but he allows Smith, the expert in this particular field (and Watson is not), to actually touch him? (Watson says in DYIN that there was a sound like Smith shaking Holmes.) I'm sorry, that's just even harder to swallow than hiding poor Watson behind the bed.

AMM readers have long since been familiar with the fact that I treat Holmes as having actually been ill in DYIN. Now they know why. ^_-

Oh, and for the record, I love Mary. The poor woman gets neither enough canonical screen-time nor enough credit from fans. She's often treated downright rudely and unfairly. Thank goodness that KCS, PGF, and Aragonite give her plenty of love!

Last but not least, using something tinged with aconite is one of the easiest ways to poison a person—it's fast once it enters the bloodstream, and you apparently need only a trace. It should surprise no one, not even Scotland Yard, that Moriarty was able to dispose of Smith so efficiently (and, yes, this is the irony that Moriarty spoke of in the previous chapter).

Next up, Watson and Wiggins and Porlock and Mycroft and… we get closer to circling back to the events of the prologue. Stay tuned!

Please review!